One, Two, Three, Four, Five
by Squinterian
Summary: The leader of the Machine Faction indulges in his favourite habit while pondering about the past, the present, and the future.


_One, Two, Three, Four, Five_

(You remember how, after you obtain the letter of introduction from him, Gippal can be found in the side chamber of the Djose temple, just walking around, stopping, then walking some more? Well...)

* * *

_One, two, three, four, five._

He paced the room, round and round, feet following a route so well known that he could have found it in his sleep.

_Turn. One, two, three, four, five. Turn. _

It took exactly five steps to move from one end of his room to another. Four, if he took strides. Six, if the steps were shorter. But five, when he walked without thinking.

Had he been walking straight, he would probably have reached the Moonflow by now.

_One, two, three, four, five. Turn._

His boot clanked on a piece of scrap metal that was lying on the floor, forgotten. Probably a remnant of some abandoned project, or else something that had trailed in, stuck on the sole of his shoe. He nudged it out of the way.

'Energetic', people sometimes called him. Or 'bouncy'. 'Hyperactive' even, on occasion, and usually behind his back. But never 'restless' – never since the Crimson Squad.

Of course, it had been Baralai's eloquent wording. Nooj might have gone with a less courteous description, and Paine had just snorted, wearing that look of hers that was halfway between fondness and scorn. But Baralai, ever the mediator, had dubbed him 'restless'.

What in blazes was he _thinking?_

_One, two, three, four, five._

Of course, in part, it made perfect sense. _Keep your friends close and enemies closer yet_, like the saying went. And it _had_ been the perfect place to hide, right under Yevon's flared nostrils.

_Turn._

But, dammit, how close _exactly_ did those enemies have to be? Considering that sick Guado…

One, two, three… 

All right, so that _was_ a pretty ridiculous thought --

… _four, five._

-- and Baralai was more than capable of taking care of himself; always had been, always would be --

_Turn._

-- and that sick Guado, Seymour, had been very persistent about the Lady High Summoner, what's-her-face, Yuna --

_One, two… _

-- and Gippal was always messing things up and getting in the way when the going got rough, like that time in the desert when he had accidentally pushed Nooj head-first into a fiend – not that Nooj would have minded if Gippal had got him killed, but that was _not_ the point --

… _three, four – clank._

There was that metal thing again. He frowned down at the offending bit of litter. Then he kicked at it, rather viciously, giving vent to his feelings. It went flying across the room, ricocheted off a wall, and ended up under a chair after a long slide.

… _five._

None of them had ever tried to contact the others. Not even him. All the common dealings their factions had were conducted through right hands and messengers, even after they found out about each other. Or perhaps, '_especially_ after'. Nothing but strict business was ever discussed in the reports.

Well, it _had_ been nearly two years by now. Memories were fading, the hurt having waned into a ghost of its former self. Information was scarce these days as well, not to mention pointless because that was all in the past and it was time to move on.

So naturally, Gippal devoutly memorised every little bit and piece of rumour that came drifting in his direction.

But Baralai, a Praetor of Yevon?

_Turn._

Of course, Nooj had the Youth League. But that made sense, since Nooj had been the authority type as long as Gippal had known him. As _far_ as he had know him. And he himself had the Machine Faction… although it was not his and neither did he consider it to be. It was a joint effort, and joint efforts were what he was good at. That was why he'd been good in their little team. And Paine… who knew where she was? Alive, though – and that was good enough for him. Spheres. Machines. Living on.

New Yevon, old Yevon – why _Yevon_, Baralai? It broke the pattern. Why the past?

_One, two, three, four, five. Turn._

A memory, of an ominous chink, accompanied with Paine's shout of warning. Bullets thudding into the sand all around then, piercing clothing and scraping skin as they ran – or more like stumbled and hobbled – for their lives, exhaustion momentarily driven back by the imminent danger. The sounds of Baralai's ragged breaths, something twanging on Nooj's artificial arm, his own blood pounding in his ears…

_One, two, three, four, five._

And later, a gunshot, the pain in his shoulder, and the sight of Baralai's face, slack with shock, falling --

_Turn. Stop. _

There never had been a Crimson Squad. There never had been Nooj, the adamant but dependable leader.

Perhaps there had never been Baralai, the trusted friend, either.

_One, two, three. Four, five. Six._

Like attracts like.

_Turn._

Wasn't that an old saying too?

_One, two, three, four five. Turn._

Sayings and obscure half-truths had never been his territory. Figuring them out was Baralai's thing, the way finding the darkest side in everything was Nooj's. What could be seen and touched, taken apart and put back together – that was Gippal's thing.

_One, two, three, four, five._

And Gippal's thing was being put together inside the old Cloister of Trials, where he himself would twist and turn, drill and screw, adjust this and toil away with that until the sunrise found him bleary-eyed and falling asleep on his feet. Nooj's thing, on the other hand, was clattering its swords against its shields all around Spira, waving its flags and banners, blaring its trumpets, and generally making such a hell of a ruckus and a show of itself so that no one could possibly miss it. Funny that such an introverted personality as Nooj would create something so loud and obvious. Or perhaps that made sense. Loudness would drown out whispers.

_Turn._

Gippal's thing was in Djose, Nooj's thing was all over… so where was Baralai's thing? Gippal was sure he had one, just as Nooj and himself did. Was it hidden beneath the layers of lies and dust that covered the pathways of Bevelle, side by side with the ancient records that New Yevon refused to share? Smooth and beguiling like one of those ringswith a needle that would inject you with poison as you were shaking the hand it adorned?

_One, two, three, four, five._

Smooth and beguiling like Baralai himself?

_Turn._

At least, with Nooj, it was easier to see where he stood.

_One, two, three, four, five. _

_Turn. _

_One, two, three, four, five. _

_Turn. _

_One, two, three…_

The sun was already descending behind the towering cliffs that surrounded the temple when another Al Bhed interrupted Gippal's pacing by poking her head in through the door and informing him that there was something faulty about the main power conductor. He left the room, taking with him a pair of tinted goggles and a tool belt from which all kinds of peculiar gadgets hung, well prepared for yet another night of ceaseless tinkering.

The last rays caught on the piece of scrap metal that Gippal had kicked under the chair, dyeing it crimson.

* * *

fin 


End file.
